


treat you so special

by mardia



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Service Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-07
Updated: 2010-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 05:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7087180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She knows that he was as much of a prodigy as Ensign Chekov, that he’s dedicated and focused and <i>brilliant</i>, but Christine’s honest enough to admit that it’s not professional admiration that’s fueling her need to watch his mouth when he talks.” Written for the Kink Bingo challenge, filling the “service” square.</p>
            </blockquote>





	treat you so special

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://kmousie.livejournal.com/profile)[kmousie](http://kmousie.livejournal.com/) for looking this over and assuring me it didn't suck, and for [](http://littledivinity.livejournal.com/profile)[littledivinity](http://littledivinity.livejournal.com/) letting me ramble on at her in chat about it.

It starts out small. Christine’s always been the polite sort, and if she’s going to get a cup of coffee for herself, it only makes sense that she’d offer to get a cup for Dr. McCoy as well.

And for all his reputation for gruffness, McCoy is also practically a poster child for good old-fashioned Southern breeding, and he always says thank you, taking the cup from her hands and sighing in relief as he takes a sip.

His fingers only rarely brush against hers as he takes the cup, and Christine doesn’t really think about it either way. Not at first.

*

Christine’s always prided herself on her competence. And with someone like McCoy, who judges everyone, including himself, by the highest of standards, who doles out his praise sparingly—it becomes a habit of Christine’s, to be as flawlessly perfect as she can be at her job. To anticipate McCoy’s needs—and the needs of everyone else—as quickly as possible, almost before he—or anyone else—has to say a word.

She’s always tried to be her best, but serving on the Enterprise, Christine can feel herself stretching just that little bit further, paying attention to every cue, every subtle twist of expression in McCoy’s face, watching his hands, his body language to see what he might need from her. Trying to read him as best as she can, so that _she_ can be her best.

She likes to think she’s doing a good job at that, and not just because McCoy is certainly comfortable about speaking up when he’s unhappy with something. She knows she’s doing a good job, because she can see the results of her hard work—McCoy coming to rely on her more and more, trusting her to do her job right on the first try.

After a fifteen hour surgery on a young ensign that got hit with the wrong end of an arrow, of all things, McCoy says absently, his voice thick with exhaustion and his Georgia accent heavier than ever, “Nice work in there, Christine.”

She’s nearly ready to drop from exhaustion herself—Ensign Chang hadn’t been the only one to come back from the away mission injured, and Chapel had already been halfway through her shift when the medical team had been called to the transporter bay—but Christine straightens her shoulders, and says, “Thank you,” and if she can’t quite hold back the note of pleased surprise in her voice, McCoy’s too tired to respond with anything other than a little nod.

She tells herself that the pleasure comes from doing a hard job well and helping to save Chang’s life, and that it has absolutely nothing to do with the way her name sounds, coming out of McCoy’s mouth.

Christine tells herself that, but she’s also self-aware enough to know when she’s lying to herself, and right now, she is, if only a little bit.

*

Christine tries not to pay too much attention to gossip, really. Mostly because it feels like something of a cliché, nurses gossiping over their lunch breaks, but she can’t help but find out a few things.

Like, even though McCoy is best friends with the captain—and Captain Kirk’s reputation had become something of a legend even before he’d taken command of the Enterprise—McCoy doesn’t have the same sort of reputation himself. Ship’s gossip paints him as something of a loner, even though he’s drinking buddies with Scotty down in engineering and Captain Kirk drags him nearly everywhere he goes.

According to the gossip, McCoy’s a divorced workaholic—but who isn’t a workaholic on this ship—who isn’t currently seeing anyone romantically.

Christine knows there’s no reason to be as… _aware_ of this fact as she is, because McCoy’s romantic life is really none of his business, not unless it comes into Sickbay.

 

*

Sweat is rolling down Christine’s neck in fat drops, making her uniform stick uncomfortably to her skin, but she does her best to be calm and collected, regardless.

Trapped on an alien planet with no working shuttle or transporter capabilities, waiting for rescue from an Enterprise that is out of range, all the while assisting on an emergency surgery in a tent in the middle of the jungle, with three anxious lieutenants guarding them, and only her and McCoy to save this ensign’s life, and Christine has to be _collected._

But she will be, because she doesn’t have a choice.

Ensign Daghlian is gasping a little, his face still drawn with pain, and McCoy’s reassuring him in a low voice, “Don’t worry, the painkillers will kick in soon.”

“All due respect, sir,” Daghlian gasps out, “—but I wouldn’t mind them kicking in a little bit fa-faster.”

“You’ll feel them start to hit soon, trust me,” McCoy says, his voice still calm and soothing, but his eyes quickly flicker up to Christine, and if she didn’t already have the training to know how dire the situation was, the look on his face tells her the truth.

Christine moves to stand next to the makeshift operating table and says gently, “You’re in the best of hands, I promise.”

Daghlian’s eyelids are starting to finally flutter shut, thank God, as he breathes out, “Yeah, I know. Everybody knows—Dr. McCoy’s the best. Even if you are grumpy all the time,” he adds suddenly, a touch of humor coming to the surface.

Christine smiles and looks to McCoy for his reaction. A smile’s tugging at the corner of McCoy’s lips, and he says, “Damned straight. But it’s not just me who’ll be helping you, and let me tell you something, Ensign—there’s no other nurse I’d want assisting me on this surgery than Chapel right here, you understand me?”

Christine knows that he’s saying this for Daghlian’s benefit, but her face, already flushed from the heat and the humidity, goes even redder for a moment.

Daghlian’s nodding his head, his eyes falling shut as the painkillers and the anesthesia finally hit, and Christine breathes a sigh of relief as they can finally begin the work of putting him back together and hopefully saving his life.

It’s a long and hard surgery—nearing the end, Christine’s drenched in sweat and she’s ready to curse out transporters and shuttles with the fervor of McCoy himself in the middle of one of his snits. But her hands remain steady and sure all the while, and so do McCoy’s, and in the tiny part of her mind that’s not occupied with doing her job, the very best that she can, that part of her notices how silent McCoy is, that he isn’t grumbling about transporters or shuttles or godforsaken planets filled with people who are trying to kill them.

But at last they’re done, they’ve closed Daghlian up and left him to sleep and recover, and they collapse, exhausted, on the ground.

“The hell of it is,” McCoy says at last, breaking the silence, “I can’t even say I didn’t know what I was getting into.”

“With this mission?” Christine asks, with some surprise. She’d been in the mission briefing, and she knows that nobody, not the captain or Spock or anyone—saw any hint of trouble coming, let alone this kind of a mess.

“With this mission, with Starfleet—” McCoy cuts himself off, and says finally, “Operating in a goddamn tent, with nothing even _close_ to a sterile environment—Christ, I might as well be a butcher.”

“You did well, though,” Christine insists quietly. “The surgery went fine—and we’ve got enough meds and supplies to hold out here for longer, if we really have to.”

“Here’s hoping we don’t,” McCoy sighs, rolling his head back, as if to stretch out the kinks. His neck and face are covered in a sheen of sweat, and the light from the lamps makes his skin look like—

Christine looks away, and sternly tries to get ahold of herself. She breathes in the humid air, and wishes for a breeze or even the chance for rain—maybe then she could clear her mind, stop thinking like an idiot.

McCoy clears his throat after a moment. “You did well too,” he says quietly, and Christine’s ears prick up at it, even though she doesn’t turn to look at him, not dead-on. “And that wasn’t hot air I was spouting earlier, I meant it. You’re the best damn nurse I’ve worked with in a long while.”

Christine can feel her lips curving up into a smile, but she says lightly, “Of course I am. There is a reason I made it to Head Nurse onboard the flagship of Starfleet, you know, and it’s not just because I look good in the uniform.”

Part of her can’t believe she’s saying this, especially the last part, out loud and to McCoy, of all people—but McCoy’s laughing suddenly, a low and amused chuckle, and Christine turns to watch, grinning herself, as he ducks his head and laughs, dimples appearing in his cheeks.

Christine pushes a few strands of damp hair behind her ear, and sits there in the dirt and the grass, McCoy’s shoulder brushing hers and feels warmth flaring in her cheeks, in the pit of her stomach, that has nothing to do with the humidity.

*

They’re all rescued four hours later, and Daghlian is rushed to Sickbay, where they pump him full of antibiotics and monitor his status, and after a lightning-fast mission debrief, Christine, McCoy, and the rest of their team members are given 24-hour leave, and told to go and rest up.

Christine goes to her quarters, indulges herself by using some of her monthly water rations in a long, hot shower, and eventually settles into bed in her overlarge Starfleet Academy t-shirt, her hair still damp on the pillow.

She breathes out slowly, staring up into the darkness of the room, somehow so aware of her body, from her arms lying still on the sheets to her fingertips, which she slowly brings up to trail down her stomach and lower still, until her index finger is resting on her clit, pressing slightly through her underwear.

Christine exhales, and remembers the heat, remembers her hair sticking to her face and McCoy’s calm voice giving her instructions, requesting instruments, remembers the sweat on his face and how he’d looked at her as he’d told her she was the best, the way his laughter sounded as he’d chuckled at her response.

Christine remembers all of this, and then with a low exhale of frustration, she kicks off her underwear, gives up the ghost, and proceeds to fantasize about her boss as she brings herself off with her fingers, her thumb rubbing rough circles against her clit.

*

There’s something unnerving and exciting about taking down that last, flimsy wall of denial and finally admitting to herself that yes, McCoy is a handsome man, and yes, Christine wants to fuck him.

More accurately, she wants _him_ to fuck _her_. The fantasies vary, but they all center around the same things, being alone with McCoy as he manhandles and maneuvers her into the position he wants, his voice rough and still matter-of-fact as he tells her _exactly_ what he wants from her, and _exactly_ how she’s going to make that happen.

And in all the fantasies, she does. Whatever he asks, she does, and she does it well, so well that the fantasy-McCoy in her head is left gasping and moaning and saying the filthiest things mixed with praise for how good she is, how tight and hot she feels around him, how—

The first dream she has of McCoy involves him backing her up against a wall, while he outlines, in detail, exactly how he wants her to jerk him off. Christine can’t even remember what he said, but the clearest memory from the dream is the tenor of his voice, the way her fingers had scrabbled at his belt, at the zipper to his black uniform pants, how eager she’d been to do as he’d asked, to get him off exactly like he wanted.

She wakes up from that dream with a start, her eyes snapping open, sweat starting to form between her breasts, and there’s a sharp ache between her legs that has her sliding her hand down almost before she even realizes it.

Christine gets herself off right there, fast, and when she comes, it’s to the memory of McCoy calling her ‘Nurse Chapel.’

*

The funny thing is that even as her fantasies become more detailed, more intense, more in every sense of the word—Christine’s actual relationship with McCoy is developing too.

They’ve been able to work well together from the beginning, and McCoy quickly learned how to trust her professional skills, but now she’s getting the sense that he…well, that he likes her. They’ll end up sitting at the same table if they’re in the mess hall for lunch at the same time, and she’s heard firsthand the story of how McCoy met Captain Kirk, back when they were would-be cadets on the same shuttle departing from Riverside, Iowa.

Christine’s taken to teasing him, even, lightly, and he usually mock-scowls at her in response but sometimes, only sometimes, she’ll get one of those rare half-smiles, dimples appearing for only a second.

He shifts between calling her Christine and Chapel, but she always refers to him as McCoy. Doctor McCoy, if they’re in Sickbay and on shift.

She recognizes that they’re on their way to becoming friends, and while that’s good—it’s still like getting orange juice in the morning when what you really want, what you really need, is the good, expensive non-replicated coffee to drink.

In the end, the issue isn’t that Christine’s fantasizing about her boss and superior officer, the issue is that Christine wants to make those fantasies a reality, and she doesn’t have any idea how to do it.

Because this isn’t just about fantasy any longer, and she’s not sure when she made the switch in her head, whether it was in that jungle or earlier, or maybe later, eating lunch with him and debating whether the food on the Enterprise was better than the stuff they served at the Academy, but she’s hit this point where the man she knows and the man she fantasizes about on a regular basis are exactly the same person.

She knows McCoy now, knows how he takes his coffee, knows whether he’s having a good or a bad day by the set of his mouth and the look in his eyes. She knows that he’s ambidextrous, that he has a mother living in Georgia that he talks to regularly, and an ex-wife that he hasn’t spoken to in years.

She knows that he was as much of a prodigy as Ensign Chekov, that he’s dedicated and focused and _brilliant_ , but Christine’s honest enough to admit that it’s not professional admiration that’s fueling her need to watch his mouth when he talks.

Christine knows him, knows him and _wants_ him, but she doesn’t know what to do about it, and it’s slowly driving her up a wall.

*

In the end, McCoy gives her the opening. Or to be more accurate, Christine realizes that there’s an opening with him she can use, if she wants to.

It’s not even that obvious, really. Any other nurse would have dismissed it without a second thought. Christine’s doing inventory during a slow shift, and McCoy turns the corner, looking to ask a question, and he sees her, squatting down, frowning abstractly at the shelves while she inputs data into her PADD.

“Chapel, have you seen—oh.” Christine twists her head to see McCoy standing there, his expression surprised, and then—so quick Christine almost misses it—his gaze flickers over to her legs, exposed even more than usual by the way her skirt’s riding up, courtesy of her current position, right before he focuses again on her face.

Christine refuses to blush, just looks McCoy right in the eyes and prompts, dutifully, “Yes, sir?”

“Uh—never mind. It can wait.” This, if Christine was looking for it—and she is looking for it—is another tell, because McCoy is absolutely _not_ a patient man, and if he’s looking for her to do something that means that it can’t wait, it need to be done right this second so McCoy can turn his attention onto something else.

Not to mention that Christine can’t even remember the last time he said “uh” in front of her, let alone to start a sentence.

He turns on his heel and leaves, and Christine thoughtfully fingers the hem of her blue skirt.

*

Christine doesn’t do anything so obvious and clichéd as to start bending over in front of McCoy to pick things up. She just—becomes more aware, that’s all. Not of him, because she’s been achingly aware of him for quite a while now, but of the way he is around her. The way he looks at her, talks to her, acts around her.

He’s closer to her than he is to any of the other nurses, or indeed, to most other people onboard the ship, and a part of Christine’s surprised that it’s taken her this long to wonder exactly why that is.

She tests it, just once, at lunch. She takes a long drink from her cup and then licks at her mouth absently as he’s talking, as if to catch any stray drops.

McCoy’s eyes focus, with unerring precision, on her mouth for one heartstopping second, and then he flicks his eyes away and picks up the thread of conversation like nothing’s happened.

Christine knows better though, and thinks she can be forgiven the feeling of triumph. After all, considering the time she’s spent staring at and thinking about his mouth, it seems only right that he should be doing the same with hers.

*

Two days after the latest mission, Christine goes into McCoy’s office to talk to him about one of the nurses, and finds him behind his desk, rolling his shoulders and looking pained.

“Everything all right, sir?” she asks, the door closing behind her.

McCoy shrugs. “Yeah, I’m just a little banged up and sore from the mission, that’s all.”

“Getting caught in a rockslide will do that to you,” Christine says mildly. “But if you need muscle relaxants or painkillers—“

McCoy makes a face. “No, I can’t think on muscle relaxants. Besides, it’s not that bad, I’m just a little stiff.”

Christine nods at this, and without quite realizing what she’s saying, offers, “I could give you a neckrub. If you’d like.”

McCoy blinks at her for a moment, and Christine can practically see him reliving the sexual harassment seminars that every cadet went through at Starfleet. Christine makes sure to look back at him placidly, her expression even and calm. It really isn’t that much of a stretch for her to do, really. Not like she doesn’t want to do it—but that, she’s aware, is the whole crux of the issue. How much she wants to do it.

But McCoy says, sounding a little surprised at his own words. “Yeah, okay, if—if you’re offering, then all right.”

The little twist in Christine’s stomach reminds her that she wasn’t so sure he would say yes—but she’s glad he did.

She moves to stand behind his chair, and lets her hands rest light at feathers on his broad shoulders, and notes how they momentarily tense up even more at her touch, just for a second, before almost forcibly relaxing.

Christine takes a second to look at her slim hands on his blue uniform shirt, and takes a breath, glad that McCoy can’t see from this position how flushed her face is. “Is there a spot that hurts in particular?” Chapel asks, her hands starting to knead lightly, her fingertips pressing in to see where the worst of it is.

McCoy takes a moment to answer, but then admits, “Pretty much everywhere, I guess.” Chapel ‘hmms’ in response, and sets to work, keeping herself aware of any winces or gasps, trying her best to work out the knots—which isn’t easy, seeing as McCoy’s upper back seems to be comprised of one giant knot.

As she sets to work, she hears McCoy gasp quietly, his shoulders twitching for a moment. “There?” Chapel prods, pushing her fingertips in even harder.

“Yeah,” McCoy says finally, “That’s one of the worst, _ah,_ spots—“

It takes a while, but McCoy finally starts to relax, and the more he relaxes, the more vocal he gets, soft little grunts and exhales, letting his head drop forward to give her more access, let her work more freely.

Christine keeps her hands constantly moving, tries not to stare at the nape of his neck and mostly fails.

“Has it been a while since you had someone work on your back?” she asks finally, looking for something to say.

“Can’t even remember the last time,” McCoy confirms, his voice not quite a drawl, but looser. More relaxed, Christine thinks, and feels that faint thrill of having gotten away with something, even though really, she hasn’t even done anything. “Probably even before I was assigned to the Enterprise,” McCoy continues, and Christine shifts her hands upward to work at the spot where McCoy’s shoulders meet his neck.

This means that she has to touch his bare skin, her fingers resting on the spots where the neckline of his black undershirt meet his bare skin, and behind McCoy, where he can’t see her do it, Christine shivers a little, and presses her thighs together, and feels McCoy relaxing under her touch, the tension leaving his body.

Christine’s not exactly sure of when or how it happens, but the atmosphere slowly starts to shift the longer the neckrub goes on, the longer that Christine keeps touching him, even though—to be perfectly honest—she’s worked out nearly all of the kinks, and she’s not even really massaging him anymore, she’s just—touching him.

Just trying to keep him relaxed, except that Christine can’t make herself believe it, and from the change in his breathing, whatever’s in the atmosphere now, McCoy’s just as conscious of it as she is.

And the tension that isn’t in McCoy’s body is suddenly in the room, inside of _her_ and Christine’s about to take her hands away, about to apologize, because this is her boss and she shouldn’t, no matter how much she _wants—_

And then suddenly McCoy’s twisting in his chair, turning to look up at her, his gaze searching and Christine just looks back at him, not sure what he’s looking for, but wanting to help him find it, whatever it is.

At last he says, “Christine,” his voice rough, and she shivers all over again.

“Yes,” she responds, watching his mouth, feeling her own go dry at the look on his face.

“If I’m—if I’m reading this wrong,” McCoy starts, unsure, but Christine doesn’t miss the way his eyes flicker to her mouth, that bright look of interest in them and oh, God, this is happening, she’s been wanting him to look at her like this for so long and—

“You aren’t,” she promises, and his mouth is suddenly somehow closer, and Christine doesn’t know how that happened, but she’s saying now, desperately, “You aren’t, I _promise_ —“

And now McCoy is touching her, a hand gently cupping her face as he tilts her head down, and takes her mouth in a gentle kiss, a question in it like he’s still somehow not sure if this is what she meant, if this is what she really wants.

But, God, it is, it really is, and so Christine kisses him back, wishing that the hand on her chin would move to the back of her neck, that he’d tug her into his lap, drag her in and hold her there while he plunged his tongue into her mouth and he would just _take—_

 _Harder,_ she thinks desperately in the corner of her mind. _Harder, rougher, just take it, take me—_

But McCoy’s mouth stays gentle, and so Christine presses in a little bit harder, tugs on his lower lip with her teeth until he gasps, and then finally, thank God, he’s licking her mouth open, his hand reaching up to hold her face in one strong hand, and yes, this is what she wants.

Except that’s not entirely true—she still wants _more._

Chapel tears her mouth away and breathes out, “Roll your chair back.” McCoy blinks up at her, dazed, but he listens and pushes his chair back with his feet, giving Christine enough room to slip in between him and the desk, stand in front of him for a dizzying moment, right before she slides gracefully to her knees, her eyes on his face the whole time.

McCoy’s eyes are huge as he stares down at her. “Christine,” he chokes out, but then his voice degenerates into a choked groan as Christine moves her hands—for once no longer steady—to the front of his pants, working at the button and zipper.

She reaches in to loosely grip his cock in her hand, and feels it jump at her touch.

She stares up at him from where she’s kneeling on the floor, and says, her voice only a little unsteady, “Tell me how you want me to do this.”

McCoy’s mouth works soundlessly for a moment, then with a tiny headshake he says, “Anything you want to do is fine, hell, _more_ than fine—“

Christine shakes her head sharply, saying, “No, tell me what you _want_ —I want to give you what you want.” She stares up at him, willing him to understand, and Christine can see the moment where it clicks and McCoy _gets_ it.

He settles back into the chair, radiating tension, and he stares at her for a long moment before he finally says, a thread of caution still in his voice, “Chapel—“ and something inside of her flutters at the use of her last name, “I want you to take out my cock, and I want you to give me a blowjob.”

Christine exhales. “Yes, sir,” she breathes out in a sigh, and McCoy inhales sharply at that but Christine’s no longer looking up at him, instead she’s doing what he said, taking his cock out so that she can lean in, and suck the head into her mouth. Her pulse is thrumming in her ears, and she grips his knees suddenly, needing something to anchor her.

McCoy’s groaning now, tiny choked groans that he’s trying to hold back, and Christine wants to hear him, she wants him to talk and to tell her what to do, and she’s about to lift her mouth away to explain, when McCoy says in a low voice, “Like that, use your tongue under the head—” Christine obeys and he groans again, louder this time, “oh Jesus, that, exactly like that—suck a little harder,” and Christine does exactly as he says, and is rewarded when McCoy lets out a soft cry.

He’s even more vocal than she imagined he would be, praise spilling from his lips as she continues, and Christine hums around his cock and takes him deeper, listening as McCoy’s voice cracks around her name, his hips twitching forward and Christine bobs her head, trying to encourage it because yes, that, she wants that.

She can feel McCoy’s fingers touching the strands of hair that have escaped her ponytail, and without bothering to look up, Christine grabs his hand, and brings it around to the back of her head, fitting it to the curve of her skull.

Now Christine looks up, right into McCoy’s face, willing him to understand, and he does, Christine knows that he does when the pressure on her head increases, when McCoy tugs her hairband off and her hair falls around her shoulders, McCoy’s large hands cupping the back of her head.

Christine looks up at him, waiting, and when McCoy says, a hitch in his voice, “Chapel, I want to fuck your mouth,” Christine groans, and holds herself still as McCoy slides his cock in and out of her mouth, slowly, his hands on either side of her head.

“Look at me,” McCoy whispers. “I want to see your eyes while I’m doing this.”

Christine keeps her eyes open, looks right up at McCoy, even as he starts to move faster, sliding in a little bit harder, rougher, and Christine’s eyelids flicker shut for a moment as she moans. _Yes, yes, use me,_ she thinks as loudly as she can, warmth pooling in the pit of her stomach.

“Eyes up here,” McCoy commands, and shuddering happily, Christine does just as he wants, staring into his face as his hips jerk forward, as he uses her mouth to get off.

“Can—“ McCoy starts, and then checks himself. “I want to come in your mouth,” he says roughly, and Christine moans again, thinking, _Do it, I want you to._

She pulls off, McCoy’s hands falling away from her head as she does, and says, her voice hoarse, “So do it then.”

She puts her mouth back on his cock before he can respond, and McCoy’s fingers are threading in her hair as he shoves his hips up, jerking once, twice, and coming with a long moan, bitterness flooding Christine’s mouth as she swallows as much as she can.

Christine doesn’t lift her head away even as McCoy slumps in the chair, panting. Instead she licks him clean first, only then pulling away to wipe at her mouth, noticing for the first time how her jaw’s aching.

“Jesus Christ,” McCoy mutters weakly, and Christine tries not to feel smug as she looks up at him, but it’s hard, because he looks absolutely _wrecked_ right now. “Here, c’mon, let me—”

He makes a move to pull her up, but Christine’s already moving upward, saying easily, “Don’t worry about it,” as she scrambles into his lap, straddling his thigh.

She’s been wet and aching since before she got down on her knees for him, and Christine’s going out of her mind, and she rocks her hips forward once before she can even think, rubbing against McCoy’s thigh as she sighs out, “Do you want to see me come?”

McCoy’s arm wraps around her waist, holding her in close, as he says with total sincerity, “Good God, yes.”

Christine exhales, pushing down a little harder, resting her forehead in the crook of McCoy’s neck, breathing in hot little pants against his skin as she grinds down into his thigh, pleasure already pulsing inside of her, and God, she’s already so worked up, she just needs to go that little bit further to push her over the edge—

“C’mon,” McCoy encourages her, in a voice that’s gone ragged, his hand resting in the small of her back, pushing her down even as he pushes his leg up to meet her thrusts. “Let me see you come, honey, I want to see you—”

And oh, oh, there’s that extra push she needed, as Christine grits her teeth and grinds down into his thigh hard, groaning out, “Yes, sir,” as she comes, burying her face in his neck to muffle her soft cries as she does.

She doesn’t move for a long while, panting against his neck as she comes down and starts to catch her breath. McCoy’s rubbing her back, his hand moving in slow circles, while his other hand is resting on her upper thigh, his thumb running up and down lightly and sending pleasant little shocks through her.

She rests there and listens to McCoy’s breathing even out, and then he says, more matter-of-factly than she’d expected, “We should probably talk about this.”

Christine turns her head so that she’s not speaking directly into his neck. “Probably,” she agrees.

“Also, I’m taking you out to dinner.”

She raises an eyebrow, even though he can’t see it. “You know, we do live on a ship,” she points out mildly. “Unless you’re talking about the mess hall, there’s not really anywhere you can take me to eat.”

“Then I’ll cook you dinner instead,” McCoy retorts, twisting his head to look at her. “Because I don’t have sex with people I’m not willing to share dinner with.”

Christine finally lifts her head and looks him in the eye. “Okay. We’ll have dinner,” she agrees, and likes the thought of it. She gives him a hint of a smile and says, “I can bring dessert.” 


End file.
